Mr and Mr Potter
by Saroyamal
Summary: In a world where Dumbledore did not die and held the situation firmly in hand, the graduation of Harry Potter was relatively smooth. Three years later found Harry in a tight spot, weighed down by the European Cup, his disastrous breakup with Ginny, and a terrible one-night-stand that might or might not concern one Tom Riddle... LVHP. AU!ABO, Omega!Tom, mpreg, no bashing.


**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter does not belong to me.  
 **Warnings:  
** 1\. Harry/Tom slash, ABO. If you don't know what ABO or slash is, please don't read. **Omega!Tom, Alpha!Harry.** Don't like, don't read.  
2\. English is not my first language, and writing is also not my forte. I apologize here for any cultural, grammatical, or contextual mistake, and also for my terrible writing skills.  
 **Author's Note:** The story has a long way to go...

 **Prelude: the Wandlore Apprentice**

With a hoot, a tiny brownish owl flitted through the lattice swiftly. On its claw was a scroll of paper disproportionately large which only got through thanks to the owl's excellence in mailing. The bird landed on the shabby workbench, jumped into the jumble of wood and machinery, and began pecking at the young man who was nodding off over the table. Yawning, the man looked up. He was pale and dark, and seemed to be in his twenties.

"Daily Prophet?" He murmured, handing out two sickles dug from the pocket. The bird chirped and flew off with the coins as the man spread the sheets out, squinting. A cold smile suddenly appeared on his face.

It would have been a plain old newspaper but for the moving photos.

 _'Harry Potter in Germany: European Cup or Potter Cup?'_ The headline shrieked. Under it, a young man, barely out of boyhood, waved his hand on a flying broom. The camera zoomed in on his forehead— a fading lightning-shaped scar.

"…Seeker for the Montrose Magpies, the nineteen-year-old hero's appearance in Germany certainly wreaked havoc. Thousands of fans have swarmed outside the hotel Potter resides, piquing the interest of the local muggle law enforcement even in the depth of the Black Forest. Up till now, three Mass Oblivions have been conducted since Potter's arrival one week ago…"

The rest of the paragraph was blocked by the man's bloodless, spindly fingers. He stroke, painfully slow, over the grinning face of the man in the photo. Parts of the report leaked from round his large palm.

"…raises the question: is Potter worthy of the attention he's been granted as a professional Quidditch player? Since the hero's inclusion of the team last year, he has yet to compete in any international…"

A thunderous thump suddenly sounded from the other side of the workshop. Newspaper discarded, the man looked over to the door.

"Tom!" Called a plump, old man whose head stuck out from between the pulled curtains. His silvery hair was almost translucent under the dingy light. "Quick! Over here."

Tom stood up, swiftly brushed the wood shavings off his clothes, and strode out. He was welcomed by the sight of a whining boy and two grim looking adults, all of them clothed in finery. The man was frowning upon the child, clearly embarrassed by the boy's sudden burst of emotion. The woman was waving a beautifully crafted wand at the boy in a frenetic manner.

"Ah, a sticky case," he said, considering the boy's blackened fingers and the Black Walnut wand at his feet, "I see."

"I failed to heal him." The older man said agitatedly, "if you cannot heal him either I'll have to send for a healer and that would be a sha…"

"No need to fret, Mykew." Tom said. He scrutinized the boy; the glimmering tip of the Aspen wand held loosely between his fingers caressed those scorched fingers. Seconds later, he smiled, drawing the stick back. With a flick of his wrist, the boy's hand was back to normal. The woman let out a yelp, looking up at Tom with the boy, both wide-eyed.

"It's all settled!" Mykew said, wiping his forehead with one muddy sleeve. He tried smiling, but all that came out was a shaky, humourless chuckle, "now, now, sir and madam. I believe we are in need of some introductions. This is Tom Thomas, my apprentice and a future wand master!" He turned to Tom, "and Tom, Madam Ambassador and Mr. Weber."

"Oh!" The woman exclaimed, "am I to understand that you start tutoring again, Mr Gregorovitch? If I am not mistaken, the last protégée you took in was over a decade ago? You also said she was the last one, did you not?"

"Ay, Ay, but Tom here has true talent." Gregorovitch said, waving his hand dismissively, "one should always make exception for greatness."

"You flatter me, Master Gregorovitch."

"I don't know about wandlore, but surely you've got a flair for healing." Madam Weber smiled, "tell me, dear, from whence did you come? There is a lovely ring to your German."

"I was born and bred in England before I came to Durmstrang Healing School." Tom said, "wandlore fascinates me. I am honoured that Master Gregorovitch should accept me as his disciple."

"Healing School…" the man started, eyes boring into Tom's appraisingly, "isn't it the Durmstrang School for…Omegas?"

"Yes," the apprentice squinted his eyes, "problem?"

"Of course not, dear!" The woman said quickly, "we are grateful you healed our little August," she squat next to the boy and urged him, "be a good boy and say 'Thank you', August."

The child merely stared at him. Down on his haunches, Tom smiled, but immediately the boy backed away, hiding himself behind the man. "August!" His mother shrieked, though to no avail. She turned to look at Tom apologetically, whose head lowered to conceal a smirk.

"It's no worries, Madam. Shall we go back to the picking?" He turned around and looked to Gregorovitch. Seeing the old man's approving nod, he summoned a shabby case, "Unicorn hair and Applewood, 12 3/4 inches long…"

 **TBC**


End file.
